


Accusations of Tranquility

by SoWrongButSoWrite (CinnaStarks)



Series: Inquisitor Izuna [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drunkenness, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Rite of Tranquility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:55:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaStarks/pseuds/SoWrongButSoWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two soldiers' drunken accusations mean nothing to Dorian after he sees another side of the woman they have chosen to insult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accusations of Tranquility

“That Tranquil bitch must be the Herald of Andraste if shecan still wave her staff around.” A tipsy one sitting at a nearby table says to her friend. The dilapidated hold’s tavern is busy enough for only someone as close to them as Dorian to hear above the din.

“She doesn’t have that sunburst though.” Drunken syllables slip from the stocky man’s lips. “Can’t be tr’quil if she do-“ It’s cut off by a slap to the back of his helmet.

“Ain’t my point.” She takes another swig from her tankard. “You ever see ‘er smile?”

“Well there was that one ti-“ Another slap.

“Or cry? Or get angry enough to rip a man’s head off?” Dorian hopes that they don’t hear the small chuckle that forces its way out after he imagines Inquisitor Lavellan performing that very action. If they do, it is ignored.

“No, I don’t believe so.” Another swig. “Still doesn’t ‘splain the sunburst.”

She shrugs. “Andraste could make nugs fly if she wanted to. Givin’ a Tranq back ‘er magic and takin’ away ‘er tattoo doesn’t seem too far off.” The bartop seems to cry out when the soldier slams her tankard against it. “Speakin’ o’ nugs, I heard that was the first thing she killed when she came to the ‘interlands.”

“Really?”

“Really! If she can kill nugs, what’s stoppin’ her from killin’ a baby? I mean, they’re just nugs with-“ One of many belches that Dorian has cringed at since finding his way into the tavern echoes across the walls.

“Hair?” Her friend finishes.

“Yeah, hair. Nugs with hair.”

When Inquisitor Lavellan asks Dorian to accompany her on a mission to Crestwood, it takes every ounce of his self-control to keep a straight face. By the time they return, he is beyond glad that he did.

Izuna Lavellan laughs at that raunchy little scamp of an elf they bring along for her skill with a bow and the way she makes him want to rip out his mustache. It’s deeper and softer than Dorian expects from a Dalish Apprentice, but he likes the way it wraps around their party like a warm blanket. Speaking of which, he also learns that affection is not a foreign concept to their leader. When Sera mocks him, Izuna’s hand usually finds his shoulder moments later. Though she laughs, her eyes meet his as if to ask if the jokes are going too far.

They never do, but Crestwood shows him what could happen if they ever did.

“No.” The confession they find in Mayor Gregory Dedrick’s abandoned house crumples in her shaking fingers. Izuna’s scowl is a crack that spreads across her face, marring whatever delicate features stand in its way. “If he cannot stand to see the result of his own apathy, then we will force him to.”

“Inquisitor-“ Seeker Cassandra tries to interject, but the pop of an errant spark from the hand of a furious mage seals her lips.

“Healthy men, women, and children died down there!” Izuna slams the base of her staff against the rotting wood floor. “They deserved more than what that man gave them.”

And it’s done.

The only time she smiles on the journey back is when they’re the last ones awake by the fire. In a half-hazard attempt to cheer her up, Dorian brings up the conversation he overheard what feels like ages prior.

“Can’t count how many times my own Clansmen have said some form of that insult.” She rests her head against his shoulder. “Instead of Andraste, it was usually Mythal, the goddess my vallaslin represents, that allowed me to still use magic.”

“Do they bother you?”

The smile vanishes. “Accusations of being something that I have feared for as long as I can remember should be trivial after what I’ve been through.”

“And they’re not.”

“Not at all.”

Those last words are tinted with tears that he never sees fall.

Months pass and they still remain hidden. He hears her laugh so hard that she falls out of her chair and roar with enough fury to scare a bear back into its cave. He sees the way she looks at those soldiers’ Commander and the way that oaf looks at her. He watches their love grow from infatuation to something not even Varric could write properly.

But he never sees her cry.

Not until his world is devoid of color and his memories are nothing but threads of what might have been. Not until his eyes stare straight ahead while hers can only stare at what lies beneath unkempt, oily locks of hair that was once meticulously groomed on a regular basis, does he hear her scream. He sees her shaking legs give in. He watches the tears grow from just a few trickles down her cheeks to a torrent that stains that rug beneath her hands and feet.

Beneath the brand, Dorian can hear a small voice remind him of her actions’ significance. He cannot remember why or how, but he recalls that they mean something.

Two soldiers, a stocky man and a tall woman, rush to help the Inquisitor to her feet. When she is upright, she glances at him one more time before rushing through the nearest doorway. The soldiers, however, do not leave. They just stare at the place she once stood.

“Remember when you thought she was Tranquil?” The man asks. “Said that you had never seen her-“

His companion smacks the back of his head. “I was drunk-” She wipes a stray tear that had begun to fall. “-and very wrong.”

**Author's Note:**

> "If you think this has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention."  
> -Ramsay Snow


End file.
